Forged in Fire
by ChaseASun
Summary: Antonin has never been able to forget her, the wild child he cursed at the Ministry. Years later, after the fall of his Master, Antonin is invited to an underground operation, where witches are sold to the highest bidder. When he sees the young wild witch, he knows he must claim her, to find out the hold she has had on him since those purple flames were forged.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hello readers! This story has been running around my head for a while now and I thought it was finally time to put fingers to keyboard, and start working on it. This is a new pairing for me, and I'm really excited, although some of the plot is still not clear. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter One – Room With a View**

Four years of living in varying degrees of squalor. Four years of living in fear and peeking through fingers. Four years of living as something less than wizard. And yet, as far as things went, Antonin Dolohov had been in worse situations. In fact, this new place was luxury compared to the terror he had experienced, and the dingy conditions of the prison cell he had inhabited in Azkaban.

Nowadays, Antonin had more than one room to his name. Whilst the bathroom was always cold and often reminded him of his time in prison, it did at least have running water, and there was always a clean towel to hand. The living room was still quite bare at times, but he didn't mind – it wasn't as if he had many friends anymore that would call over for dinner or want to share a bottle of wine with. From his bedroom window, he could see the sprawl of London, and imagine that all was still well with the world. If he concentrated really hard, he could almost see a Dark Mark floating above a building, but those days were long gone. All that was left of that symbol was scarring on the arms and a faded tattoo.

Was he a coward for fleeing after his master fell? Probably yes, but at least, he had managed to keep his head down since the battle. He had travelled the length and breadth of Britain, occasionally wondering whether he should head back to Russia and seek refuge amongst his own people. The only reason he didn't was because he didn't want to face the look of shame on his parents faces.

Instead he took a leaf out of the Boy Wonder Potter's book, camping in forests and barns, concealing himself from others, or otherwise making himself appear as small as possible, never staying in the same place for very long. He stole from country and farm houses that advertised their wares, even setting traps and snares. He was reminded of the camping trips he took with his father when he was a young boy, and still recalled all those lessons. His father would be proud of him for this, at least.

When Antonin was able to get a copy of The Daily Prophet, he sometimes spotted articles about the men and women he had once called friends, and how they now fared. Many had gone back to Azkaban to face the perils of the Dementors – some of the Inner Circle had even been subject to the Kiss after they had been found guilty at the trials. Antonin felt himself lucky - he knew he would experience that fate if he were ever caught. He had killed a member of the Order, one of Potter's dear friends. They would want him to pay for that crime in blood, if they were allowed.

At least the newspaper thought him long gone, although they had never found his body. And they never would.

The Malfoys, he noticed, had escaped punishment. They claimed that they had changed allegiance before the final duel occurred. He hadn't dared to approach Lucius for help – they had been friends once upon a time, but now, he couldn't trust him. He would hand him over as soon as look at him.

The only wizard he was still in contact with was Thorfinn Rowle. Thorfinn had gone underground after the war ended, emerging a year later. He was caught minutes away from a country pub, a foolish mistake. He had undergone trial. Antonin wasn't sure how the man had managed it, especially when others around him had been sent down, but Thorfinn had gotten off with six months inside Azkaban, following a release where he was magically cuffed and forced into a job mopping the floors of Gringotts wizarding bank, and making his way along the shops of Diagon Alley.

Not long after he had gotten the cleaning role, he had found the London flat, and gotten in touch with Antonin, inviting him to live with him. And the Order only thought that _they_ could produce a Patronus - what fools they were! Why Thorfinn's was a gazelle, he had no idea, but he had managed the tricky art of making it talk, and finding its desired target.

Whilst Antonin still wasn't able to get a job in the wizarding or Muggle world, he did what he could about the flat. He made meals, relying on memories of being in his mother and grandmother's homes. Thorfinn ate each meal with gusto, often asking for his favourites several times a week. Antonin also cleaned up the house, moving swiftly with a duster, and made sure that clothes were clean, as if he were a bloody House Elf. Before Hogwarts, he had been used to manual labour - his family home had not come with magical creatures, although they had lived an hour or so's walk away from a unicorn forest.

In the day, he read free Muggle newspapers, sometimes taking a walk around the park. He noticed that when he did this families veered well away from him, sensing he was a danger to others. Sometimes he found Muggle coins or notes in the street and ventured into charity shops. Here he found new shirts, trousers, shoes and books, which he read and then donated back to the stores.

In the afternoons, he watched the television in the corner of the living room. It was a strange contraption, displaying sound and moving pictures. His dislike of Muggles had lessened when he found competitive programmes and furthered his knowledge with quiz shows.

In the evenings, he and Thorfinn would eat in front of the screen, complaining about how much their lives had changed. Both had grown accustomed to the new way of the world, and both didn't overtly mourn the loss of their magic. Thorfinn's golden bracelet prevented him from using it, and every store he visited, he had to push the mop and fill the bucket by hand.

Antonin kept his wand in the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and every few days, he would open the drawer and check it was still there. Occasionally, he stroked the piece of mistletoe, almost feeling the power of the Abraxan core surging through his fingertips. He was tempted, so tempted to cast a spell – any spell – but it was not worth it. Bringing the Ministry down upon him would endanger Thorfinn, and he couldn't betray his trust, nor his friendship.

Outside Antonin's bedroom window, rain splashed down, droplets clinging to the glass. Heavy clouds passed by, bringing with them the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder. Muggles hurried along the street, hidden under thick coats and hats. Their scarves were tightly wound around their necks, the ends trailing in the wind like a snake. Gloves held on tightly to the handles of various coloured and sized umbrellas that were being battered by the winds.

"Poor sods," Antonin muttered, turning his gaze to the flashing neon lights of the kebab shop across the road. Inside men were moving stacks of orange polystyrene boxes about and flipping the sign from Closed to Open. The lights of the shop were hypnotic, and he felt tiredness creeping upon him.

He felt his eyes closing when there was a great banging on the door. Antonin leapt from his seat on the windowsill, readying himself a fight, when Thorfinn burst through, still in his work uniform. His blonde hair was mussed, and his eyes were agleam. Antonin's eyes were drawn to the enforcement bracelet on the man's wrist, where it continued to shine brightly.

"Ant, get your coat."

Antonin scowled at the use of the nickname. It wasn't one he particularly liked, but was helpful to use in the Muggle world. He forced a smile on his face whenever one of the charity shop or café workers called him that.

"Why? Where are we going?"

Thorfinn rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Oh, you'll see mate! You will see!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two – Walking in the Rain**

Antonin followed Thorfinn out of the block of flats, his hands buried deep into the pockets of his coat. High collared and black, it was deeply reminiscent of something Severus Snape would have worn, if he had lived long enough to see the defeat of his old Master. Heading to the right along the street, Thorfinn was hunched slightly as the wind battered him from all sides. Although he had long legs, Antonin struggled to catch up, with the onslaught of weather. He found himself wishing that he owned an umbrella. At least his thick boots would protect him.

"So are you going to tell me where we're going or not?" he asked, as rain splattered his face.

"Not yet, you never know who's listening," Thorfinn replied, checking behind him. Muggles still hurried past on their way home, some small children whining about the water leaking into their shoes. "I only found out about this place today when I was at work."

"And whereabouts did you hear about it?"

The pair turned onto a main street, where advertisements screamed at them from all angles. Taxis, buses and motorbikes whizzed past, sending gutter water onto the pavement. Walking beneath the awnings of tourist stores and restaurants, Thorfinn pulled a ragged piece of parchment from his jacket pocket, studying it closely. Nodding, he stuffed it back, grasped Antonin's sleeve and urged him forwards, down a dark alley littered with crumpled, soggy cardboard boxes and vegetable peelings. Antonin resisted the urge to hold his nose, as they plunged on, before emerging onto another well-lit street.

"The sooner your parole is up, the better. We could have Apparated and stayed dry by now," Antonin grumbled.

"One more month, mate. I'm lucky it wasn't life. I think that judge likes blondes. Went easy on me, and on the Malfoys." Thorfinn glanced at shining shop windows as they passed, brushing his wet hair out of his face. "And we could have, but you've become a coward with your wand. Hiding it away, like a girl hides her diary! You'd only have splinched us, anyway."

"Knowing my luck, there'd be a trace on it or something." Antonin caught sight of himself in the windows as they waited at a traffic light. His rich brown hair hung to his shoulders, and it could do with trim. Raising a hand to his face, he thought about heading home and attacking his five o'clock shadow with a razor. At least, he looked presentable, compared to some of these Muggles. A boy beside Antonin had trousers that seemed to bag around the buttocks.

"They stop at seventeen, you should be fine!"

"Fine? Fine? I was a Death Eater for our Master since the early days at Hogwarts. I wouldn't put it past the Ministry to have done something about our wands by now."

"You're hardly page one of the Prophet anymore! In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw you in it! So you can test it later then, can't you?" Thorfinn smiled brightly, moving around a group of scantily dressed Muggle women. He wolf whistled, and the women giggled, gently shoving each other back and forth. The girl in the red and white dress winked at Antonin, and he glared in response. She scurried back towards her friends.

"What do you mean, test it? You, my friend, are not making much sense."

Thorfinn stopped to check the sign above the street, before crossing the junction, and turning left into the heart of the West End. He didn't reply to Antonin, until they were stood outside an empty ramshackle theatre. The theatre was unlit, the posters proclaiming a cast list that was long since dead and the production no longer running – in fact, it was doubtful that anyone had ever heard of it before. Graffiti was sprayed across the tarnished handles. No one seemed to pay the pair any attention – Muggles moved around them in worlds of their own.

"Do you remember the blunder in the Battle of Mysteries? When Black died and then the secret was out?" Thorfinn said softly.

Antonin bared his teeth as if he were little more than a dog. Thorfinn knew that topic was off limits, access denied, and all the rest of the silly sayings that had ever existed.

"Calm down, Ant. I'm just asking, that's all. No need to bite my head off."

"And your point about it is?" Antonin tried to tug the collar of his coat tighter about him. By now, he felt as if he had been stood under a shower – he was sure he resembled a drowned rat by now. Or even Wormtail, the Master rest his soul.

Thorfinn jerked his head towards the theatre. "She's in there."

"What-"

"Can I help you gentlemen?" a slimy voice said. Antonin stared down at a stooped figure, and the upturned face of Mr Borgin. He looked as dastardly as ever. His hair was slicked back with what Antonin supposed was grease, and a large red spot was noticeable on the side of his nose. His clothes looked worse for wear, with what looked like hand sewn patches in the knees of the trousers. His shirt front was rumpled as if he had slept in it - there was even a dried glob of brown near the button. Antonin felt disgusted.

"Two for the special showing, my good man," Thorfinn said, tossing the older man two golden Galleons. Mr Borgin grabbed them greedily. Antonin wouldn't have been surprised if he had bitten them to check if they were made of chocolate.

"Special show? What are you wasting your wages on now?" Antonin turned to his friend. "Thorfinn, you will tell me what is happening, or you will regret that I was your one Patronus call after your probationary meeting. You're lucky I could still understand the old code."

"They still think I'm on good terms with dear mumsy. If they did the research properly, they'd know she died ages ago. Anyway, this is actually an auction house. It's for people like us."

"Wizards or-"

"Wizards of the darkest abilities and powers, Mr Dolohov," Mr Borgin said, inclining his head. "I would doff my hat to you, if I were wearing one. It is so good to see you so... Alive."

Antonin nodded his thanks to the store owner.

Mr Borgin thrust a cluster of parchment into the hands of the two men, and ushered them towards the theatre doors. They opened of their own accord, permitting them access to the darkness within. Once the doors were closed, and Mr Borgin had replaced the enchantments on the inner handles, candles slowly burned into life, creating a warm, almost cheerful glow. They were scattered on the floor, throwing shapes across the walls.

"Follow me gentlemen." Mr Borgin nodded and headed for a set of carpeted stairs to the left of the entry hall.

Antonin and Thorfinn did as they were told, dust rising as they walked. Muffled sounds were coming closer and closer, until they were stood in an old bar area. The drinks bottles were dusty, barely any liquor remaining, but several wizards and an odd looking witch were milling around, talking in quiet tones. They looked up at Antonin and Thorfinn's entrance, raising their right hands to touch their left forearms, in a gesture of greetings.

"The auction will begin shortly, lady and gentleman." Mr Borgin nodded to the crowd and headed back downstairs to the foyer.

Antonin settled himself at the bar, leaning against the still sticky countertop. He sighed as he turned to his friend. "Thorfinn, if you don't explain, you'll find yourself wishing you were dead."

Thorfinn grinned. "Like I said, this is an auction house. They have all sorts on offer – money, cursed artefacts that have been procured from the Master know's where. And tonight, one night only, they're selling…" He paused, his grin spreading wider. "Witches."

"What do you mean-"

"Witches, Ant, the likes of which you can only dream of. The highest bid wins, and then she's yours to take away. To do with whatever you and your little black heart desires."

"And you think I'd want to bid on one? That I cannot get a date or something? Why have you really brought me here?"

"Come on, you answer all those quiz questions on Channel Four, but you can't connect the dots with something as simple as this?" Thorfinn held up his hand, and began to fold his fingers down. "Number one, the battle of mysteries. Number two, the dreams I know you have. Number three, _she_ is in there."

Antonin opened his mouth to reply, but never got the chance. The doors leading to the theatre seats creaked open, and someone banged a ceremonial gong three times.

The auction was beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three – Lot Number**

There was many an excited mutter as the crowd made their way through the open doors and into the seats. Antonin and Thorfinn followed the others along a threadbare carpet, down an equally shabby set of steep stairs, and into the stalls. Seats were broken up by long aisles, lined with silver framed, lit lanterns. The light made the whole area much warmer, and here the wizards started to break off into their own groups, apart from the witch. She had pushed others aside so she could sit, front and centre for the whole spectacle. She had a dark coloured pixie haircut and gleaming eyes as she crossed her legs, her long nails gently scratching at the wool of her tights.

Antonin and Thorfinn took seats towards the end of a row, Antonin thinking it would be the quickest escape route, should anything happen to him. The seat was uncomfortable – tiny nails broke out of the chair arms, trying to catch the fabric of his coat. The springs in the seat stuck up awkwardly, but at least they didn't stick in any unfortunate places. There was also little room for his legs – Antonin felt like he was being folded in half. He knew he was tall by many standards, but this was just proving ridiculous.

"Will you stop jostling and sit still? You're worse than a child." Thorfinn, on the other hand, simply settled in his seat, all the while looking as if he did this sort of thing all too often. He unbuttoned his jacket a little and settled back, as casual as could be.

Antonin resisted sticking his tongue out at the comment, but instead cast his gaze at the others around him. He didn't recognise anyone. In fact, many of them looked quite well to do, as if they were successful businessmen. Many dropped their gazes from others, as if they shouldn't be seen here at all. Antonin reckoned many shouldn't be. This was the kind of thing that the new Minister for Magic, that damned Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt, would stamp out, if he knew about it anyway.

By the looks of it, he didn't.

"Thorfinn, how often do these auctions take place?" Antonin asked.

"I don't know, like I said I heard about this today. Suppose it's like a pop-up shop kind of thing. Probably moves location and has all sorts of spells and enchantments on it. I was at Gringotts – one of the goblins was talking about something, that they should have someone represent them for the item. So I did what any cleaner would do." Thorfinn grinned. "I carried on cleaning, just a bit closer to them. Didn't take a genius to put two and two together, especially when they just kept right on chatting... And then this bloody goblin with a head the size of a bloody peanut says that they're even selling flesh tonight. Fresh witch and-"

The aisle lights dimmed, and on stage, the thick heavy, musty, stained curtain began to rise, cutting off what Thorfinn had to say.

A small podium stood lonely on the stage. No items or witches were to be seen, although Antonin could see the joins of the stage, where pieces would come away or rotate, like on those quiz shows he saw. There was no backdrop on the stage, showing the audience behind the scenes – ropes, a wooden gangplank and boxes of disused props and costumes.

Mr Borgin emerged onto the stage from the wings, the tip of his wand glowing lightly. He pointed it at his throat, rasped out, "Sonorous", and positioned himself at the podium.

"Good evening, lady and gentlemen. Welcome to Borgin and Burkes austere auction. I am your host for the evening. If you don't know me, my name is Mr Borgin, and you can find our store in Knockturn Alley, just off Diagon Alley. We specialise in the dark and in the unknown, offering our services to those who have ever needed them." Mr Borgin paused and adjusted his shirt. "Tonight we have some treats in store for you, including our special items this evening. Yes, that's right lady and gentlemen, we have procured not one, not two, but three Mudblood witches!"

There was much muttering in the crowd, and Antonin grasped the arm of his chair tightly.

"Let's begin our auction with Lot Number One – a broken chandelier from the Brook family estate." Mr Borgin pointed to the side of the stage.

A young, equally greasy looking, man walked out, the chandelier before him. He called out in a clear voice, "Showing here."

Mr Borgin commanded the attention once more. "Shall we start the bidding, lady and gentlemen?"

* * *

Antonin felt as if he had drifted off to sleep. His eyes hurt, and his neck felt stiff. He had pins and needles in both feet, and he was certain that his bottom had fallen asleep. Reams of items were displayed in the auction, and each time, the price seemed to be rising higher and higher. He had consulted the parchment many times over in the dim lights, but each time he looked, it just blared out the same advertisements for stores in Knockturn Alley, Borgin and Burkes included. He could recite them from heart if someone asked him to.

He was considering walking out, leaving Thorfinn to it, but curiosity kept him seated. He needed to find out, needed to know if she was truly here. If the wild child was to be offered up as little more than meat at one of these Muggle supermarkets.

His dreams were of her.

She was in those long corridors at the Ministry, running from him. Every so often, she would dart down an aisle, peek her head out, grin in the most mischievous of ways, and start running again. Every time Antonin reached her and took her in his arms, she would cry out in pain. Purple flames – the flames of his spell – would surround her, burning through her clothes, leaving her in mere scraps that concealed her modesty. She reached for his face, trying to pull him to her, and each time their lips met, she would vanish.

Antonin would wake, drenched in sweat. Those dreams had tortured him since he had met her for the first time in the Battle of Mysteries, and when he was interned back in Azkaban after his Master failed to kill the boy Potter and old man Dumbledore, the dreams continued to persist him. They were the only things to keep him going…

"Lot Number 101, lady and gentlemen. Our final witch of the evening, I present to you a rare find. A wonder to all, and well known for her friendship with the Boy Who Lived. Assisting the Ministry and all around her, nicknamed the cleverest witch of her age by deceased werewolf traitor, Remus Lupin – although she's not too smart, if she was caught!" Mr Borgin broke off to grin unpleasantly. "Lot Number 101, the Mudblood, Hermione Granger."

"Showing here," the young man called out, and there she was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four – What Happens to Witches**

Bright lights assaulted her, and she tried to shrink back from them, but it was useless. The restraints around her neck and wrists tightened and she was forced to continue standing in the spotlight for all to see. Not that she could see anybody in the crowd, only vague dark shapes. She knew that there were people before her, she had heard them talking, their voices rising when items were hauled out. When the two girls she had been caged with had been taken out onto the stage, the voices were louder than ever, shouting over each other, clamouring to be heard. She had still not been able to discern who any belonged to, and Borgin's slimy voice didn't help either. She had not been able to hear who had purchased what item, or sadly, which witch.

Hermione Jean Granger had never felt more useless in her life.

Everything had been going good for her since the defeat of Lord Voldemort. She had helped with the repairs to Hogwarts, and wizarding Britain in general. When the school was opened a year later, eighteen year old Hermione had packed her trunk, bought her books and supplies from Diagon Alley, and proceeded to finally complete her seventh and final year at school. She had worked her fingers to the bone to complete her assignments, and also complete her Head Girl duties as was required of her. She had passed her N.E.W.T. examinations with flying colours.

After completing school, and being assured that the new Ministry had everything in line, she had taken a year out, and gone to Australia. There, she found her parents working at a dentists practice, as if they would be anywhere else. Hermione's spell to make them believe they really were Wendell and Monica Wilkins had worked well, and when she lifted it, she felt as if her world had become whole once again. Her parents enjoyed Australia more than they had ever enjoyed England, and had been ready to open a new practice of their own. Hermione spent the year with them, assuring friends of Wendell and Monica that she was just a niece on holiday, although in the evenings, she was able to hug them and have a proper catch up. She loved spending time with them, even if they no longer seemed to be the Grangers she once knew. She had spent her nineteenth birthday with them, which was a lovely time, full of cake and laughter. Her parents seemed livelier, less bothered about the world of magic nowadays. At the end of her years break, they wished her well for the future, imploring her to visit again, and that they would keep in contact as much as possible.

Just last year, at the age of twenty, Hermione had started working for the Ministry in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She had been thrilled at the chance to further the rights for House Elves, and it wasn't long before she was badgering Minister Shacklebolt to make the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare (S.P.E.W.) a registered charity.

The evening Hermione was attacked, she had been walking home from work. She had been looking forward to running a nice hot bath and getting into her pyjamas, ordering a Chinese takeaway and going over the plans for the werewolf fundraiser she wished to throw. She had all her colour coded notes, along with hundreds of reams of parchment and books that Harry had discovered when they cleared out the Lupin family home. She still had all her old school books, and she remembered quite clearly what she had written for Snape's essay in the third year.

She had just turned the corner of her street, wondering what to have for dinner like a normal twenty-one year old, when she was hit hard in the middle of her back by a Stunner. As she fell, she twisted, trying to get at her own wand, when she felt another Stunner strike her in the chest. She groaned, trying her hardest to push through the pain, when she felt the Full Body Bind being placed upon her. Trying to move was horrifying, especially when she was being stared down at by unfamiliar, hooded men.

She tried to speak, to shout, to call for help, but nothing happened. Instead, hands searched her, plucking all magical instruments off her body, including her wand. It was snapped before her eyes and tossed into a nearby public Muggle rubbish bin. She felt tears trickle down her face. _This couldn't be happening, this wasn't possible_ , she thought, _there were no more Death Eaters in Britain – Voldemort was dead!_

The next thing she knew, a hessian sack was pulled over her head, and her body was lifted into the air.

Darkness overwhelmed her for several days, until she finally woke. When she did, she found herself in a large metal cage, the kind of which someone would keep a dog in. She was not alone though. She soon learned her companions were Lucy Murphy and Amie Conker. Lucy worked in Flourish and Blotts as a retail assistant, whereas Amie was a junior reporter for The Daily Prophet. Both women had been attacked close to their homes. Lucy had been the first to experience the cage, followed by Amie and later, Hermione.

The girls clung to each other, reassuring each other that things would get better, someone would find them, but by then, Borgin had told them the ugly truth. They were Mudblood witches, still considered the filth of society by many wizards who remembered Voldemort's reign. He had forced the girls into wearing thin white cotton dresses, and afterwards, he had burnt the clothing they had been taken in, including their underwear. The girls were fed bread, cheese and water, and every time they had to use the toilet, were forced to use a bucket, which was emptied day and night. Other than that, they were not harmed.

Lucy had been the first to be sold when the evening of the auction rolled around. She had been taken from the cage, screaming, fighting tooth and nail to escape, but her captors were cruel. They bound her wrists with rope and forced her into wearing an ugly leather collar, complete with leash.

"Wear it like the bitch you are," a man had growled, and forced the lead into a young man's hand. The man leered at Lucy, and dragged her forwards into the bright light, her screams echoing off the walls.

Amie was the next to be taken. More ropes and another dog collar were brought forward and although Amie co-operated, she had taken the opportunity to kick the man's shin and spit in his face. He had slapped her so hard that she had staggered backwards towards the cage, choking on the collar. Amie tried to reach for Hermione, but it was too late. She was gone.

And then, it was Hermione's turn. After witnessing what the other witches had gone through she knew what to expect. Bowing her head, she let the man bind her wrists tightly. He jerked the knots several time, and Hermione winced, already seeing dark red marks appearing on her pale skin.

"Not got anything to say for once, Mudblood?" the man spat, but Hermione kept her mouth closed. She allowed the collar to be placed around her neck, and the leash fastened. Carefully, the man moved Hermione's hair so her wild mane fanned out behind her. "They got to make sure you're the real deal, after all!"

Silently, Hermione allowed herself to be handed over, as she emerged into the light. _So this is what happens to witches like me_ , Hermione thought, as tears threatened to spill.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – Selling Hermione**

"Shall we start the bidding at 50 Galleons?" Borgin said, the number hanging in the air. Hermione dropped her gaze to her bare feet, freedom slowly slipping further and further away.

"50 right here!" yelled a man to the left of the stalls. There was a crinkle of parchment as the figure waved a hand in the air excitedly. Hermione supposed that a wizarding auction was very similar to a Muggle auction in that respect at least.

"60," a curt voice responded. The voice came from the other end of the room. It was odd, slightly accented. Hermione could have sworn that she had heard it somewhere before.

"70," the first voice said. Clearly someone else wanting to place a bid on her had ramped up the excitement.

"80," the second countered.

"90!"

"100 Galleons." The second voice was pushing the price further up – 100 Galleons was a lot of money to spend on anything, never mind a human life.

"A two horse race, this is splendid indeed! What of you, Miss Granger? Are you enjoying having men squabble over you? It wouldn't be the first time, with the other members of your Golden Trio!" Borgin clapped his hands and starting tapping his foot, finding a rhythm. "And we seem to have forgotten the esteemed international Quidditch Seeker, Viktor Krum!"

Hermione let her gaze travel to Borgin. He was a disgusting creature, and was making no effort to conceal the lust he felt as he stared at her body. There was a reason she, Lucy and Amie had been forced into these dresses. Not only could the audience see what they were buying, but it gave Borgin a good ogle too. Instead of answering, she shook her hair back behind her shoulders, straightening her posture. If this was the way her life was going, she was going into it as she did exams – with confidence.

"Oh gentlemen, isn't she a treat for the eyes? Mr Wickes, are you willing to go higher for this Mudblood?"

"110!" Mr Wickes called out. The light spun from Hermione for a second and highlighted the gentleman stood up, shielding his eyes. He was strange looking – tall and bald, with a carefully trimmed beard. He had heavily muscled arms that strained against his robe sleeves. His robes also strained across his protruding stomach. There was ink creating a strange pattern on his fingers that were similar to Muggle gang tattoos. His eyes were wide as Hermione stared directly at him. He licked his bottom lip suggestively, and Hermione felt as if she was going to be sick.

"And what of you, Mr Dolohov? Higher?"

"Dolohov," Hermione whispered. There was a sharp jerk on the leash, pulling her backwards into the hard figure of her captor. She cried out as pain ran down her neck and spine.

"No talking on the stage, dog," her captor spat, and shoved her upright once more, his fingers digging into the bones of her hips so painfully that she knew he would have marked her skin.

"120." The voice that named its price was softer than she had expected as the light turned on him. He was just as she remembered. It wasn't everyday after all that she had faced a high ranking Death Eater, a man of Voldemort's Inner Circle, and lived to tell the tale. Dressed in smart Muggle clothing, he cut an impressive figure, fists clenched at his sides. He was on his feet, his eyes trained directly on her. On her face, not roaming over her figure as she had seen Wickes do.

"130!" yelled out Wickes, the light flickering back in his direction.

"150," Dolohov responded. He didn't look towards Wickes, or Borgin as he offered his price. He only had eyes for her. And yet, she didn't feel like squirming. She should though – this was the man who had burnt her in the Department of Mysteries. She had taken ten potions a day for a week to treat the curse, a curse that could have killed her if the incantation had been spoken, and even then required small follow ups with Madam Pomfrey. She had experienced nightmares about the ordeal for weeks after the attack, often waking drenched in sweat, the scar on her stomach twinging. The scar he had left behind. A constant reminder of him and what he was capable of.

Wickes voice was uncertain as he called out, "160!"

Hermione stared at Dolohov, as he rasied the price further to 200 Galleons. The crowd drew in a collective breath and even Borgin spluttered at the podium.

"200 – and I repeat 200 Galleons for Mudblood Granger! The highest price for any of our females on offer tonight, lady and gentlemen! This evening is going splendidly for all involved!" He leaned forward on the podium, nearly knocking it over in his excitement. "Mr Wickes, any advances on 200 Galleons?"

Wickes turned, eyeing up his competition. His eyes lingered on Dolohov's arms, knowing as well as everyone in the room that he still bore the faded, scarred remains of the Dark Mark. Wickes finally dropped his gaze to the ground, shook his head, and lowered his behind to his seat.

Dolohov was still stood as Borgin beamed at the crowd.

"Selling for 200 Galleons, to Mr Antonin Dolohov!" He banged the gavel once, and it echoed through the theatre.

Just like that, Hermione had been sold to the highest bidder. One tear drop fell down her cheek, landing between her feet on the stage. She caught sight of Dolohov edging out of the row of seats, and striding along the aisle, a fierce looking blonde wizard following him as fast as he could. She lost sight of him as she was led back into the darkened wings. The cage was still there, empty of its inhabitants now. She hoped no other witches would suffer the same fate that she, Lucy and Amie had. She shivered.

From her position, she watched as Dolohov and his companion climbed onto the stage with ease. Dolohov shook hands with Borgin, pulling him closer to whisper in his ear. Parchment was signed, wax was dripped and stamped, and the deal was done.

Borgin turned back to the podium to speak. Dolohov strode towards Hermione, his tall, slim figure becoming even more imposing than it had been when she was a teenager. His companion was at his heels, and she could see him more clearly – Thorfinn Rowle, the man who had tried to curse her, Harry and Ron in London during the hunt for Horcruxes. She had forgotten that the men had appeared to be friends, or partners at least.

Her captor passed over control of the leash, before hurrying off to continue with his work. The slap of leather into Dolohov's palm reverberated through the wings, making Hermione flinch. Even then, the Death Eater's eyes did not roam, staying on her face.

" _Moya mechta_ ," he said under his breath.

* * *

 _Moya mechta -_ my dream


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to favourite, alert and review. This is new territory to me writing about Antonin, and I'm learning new things about my plot the more I write! Definitely darker than I had first envisioned, but I have pages of notes to keep me going! I hope you're enjoying it so far!

* * *

 **Chapter Six** **– Hermione's New Home**

Hermione could only stare dumbfounded at the Dark wizard who stood before her. His eyes bored into hers, and she found her cheeks were flushed. No one had ever looked at her that way before. It was as if he didn't believe she was real. There was something else behind that look though, a feeling she knew all too well. Curiosity.

"What did you say?" she said, her voice no higher than a whisper.

He merely blinked at her, as if he had not understood her although she was speaking plain English. And it was no use him pretending that he didn't know the language – he had studied at Hogwarts for seven years before devoting his time to bigoted, power hungry tyrant.

"We must make tracks," he said, stepping closer to her. He held out his free hand to her, but she couldn't move her feet. Her knees knocked together as the man towered over her. "Things will be much simpler if you comply, Miss Granger."

His voice was soft, yet commanding, and Hermione weighed up her options. Although she was still technically a prisoner, if she agreed to go along with him, she could find as escape route. She might be a girl, but she knew how to handle herself in a fight. Knock him out, get his wand, get to the Ministry. She would be safe there – Minister Shacklebolt still considered her an old friend. He would protect her, alert the Auror Office, and then Dolohov would have nowhere to hide. Harry would have the whole team out, and he'd probably alert the rest of the Weasley family too – George and Ron would most certainly be up for a fight. It would not bring back dearly, departed Fred, but to see another Death Eater go down, would lighten their heavy hearts.

Taking a deep breath, sure that her new plan would work at some point, Hermione placed her hand in Dolohov's.

His hand stiffened around hers, but only for a minute. He urged her through the back of the theatre, Rowle following closely behind them. Brass candle holders burned low, creating a warm, cosy atmosphere, although several times Hermione stubbed her toe. She stumbled, but still she continued, her eyes flitting around her.

Dolohov led her down a set of stairs, towards a small door marked with faded red block letters. Hermione bit her lower lip in anticipation as Dolohov knocked sharply once on the 'Stage Door Exit'. The door swung open into a crowded alley – there was so much junk piled up unnaturally high around that Hermione knew if she tried to scale it, it would come down within seconds and she would lie beneath it, battered and broken.

Instead, there was a wizened wizard waiting with a scroll of parchment. He stared at Dolohov and Rowle, before his eyes settled on Hermione.

"What was your purchase this evening, sirs?" the wizard wheezed.

"Miss Granger," Dolohov said. Hermione was surprised he had not called her a Mudblood. In fact, he had said her name with a gentleness she did not expect.

"Location?"

This time, it was Rowle that spoke, delivering an address in London that Hermione did not recognise.

The wizard checked a mark against his parchment, and reached down into a plastic box. He muttered a few words, before he straightened his back with a snap, presenting Dolohov with a shabby one-eyed teddy bear. It glowed briefly.

"Take it," the wizard grunted. "One… two… three."

Her hand was still entwined within Dolohov's, when he and Rowle grasped the stomach of the bear at the same time. Hermione felt a tugging sensation behind her naval, the familiar pull of travelling by Portkey. An illegal Portkey, she realised. These people who had organised the auction must have a hand in the Ministry, and that thought scared her more than she would admit.

Hermione's bare feet landed on a thin carpet, in a dull lit hallway. Magnolia floral wallpaper was peeling from the walls, and a purple bicycle was propped beside a flat marked 'A'. The smell of dog and takeaway mingled in her nose, making her feel sick.

"Home sweet home," she murmured, and Rowle chuckled behind her. He dropped the bear he had been holding onto the carpet, sending dust into the air.

"Nah, we're a bit classier than this." Thorfinn pushed aside, thundering up the set of stairs. Paint peeled from the wooden bannister.

Hermione turned to face Dolohov. He looked thinner than the last time they had met, and a light dusting of hair grew sporadically on his face. Still, his intense eyes focused on hers.

"We live upstairs," he said, starting to move forwards. Hermione dug her heels into the carpet of the hallway, trying not to let her body be jerked by the collar and leash. She slammed into the bannister rail, grazing the skin of her breast, and she groaned. He stopped, his foot on the stair, turning to face her. He wasted no time in descending the few stairs he had climbed. Ducking low, he pushed his arm into the back of her knees, so that she dropped into his arms.

"Careful," he said, and bringing her close to his chest, he hurried up the stairs. She bounced against him, although there was no mistaking a pounding heartbeat. They arrived in the entryway to flat 'B', and Hermione could see a sparse sitting room, a clean kitchenette attached to it where Rowle was opening cupboards. Dolohov walked to a deep red sofa, and lowered his arms. "Please, sit."

Hermione did as he suggested, although her mind was now working overtime. Okay, a well- known pair of Death Eaters had her in their flat. She had no wand, and she couldn't see a sign of one on either of the two wizards, so far. She crossed her arms over her chest, the graze starting to pain her. Her plan was certainly not working.

She was startled out of her thoughts when Dolohov crouched before her, his hands linked together.

"Would you care for some tea, Miss Granger?"

"Tea?"

"Yes. Or we might have a jar of coffee somewhere, if you would prefer that?"

"You're offering me a drink?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you offering me a drink? Wouldn't you sooner, oh I don't know," she paused, ending with a flippant, "kill me?"

Dolohov smirked. "Why would I do that, Miss Granger?"

"Maybe because you're a Death Eater, and I'm nothing but a dirty Mudblood?"

"You are rather straight to the point, aren't you, Miss Granger? Let me assuage some of your fear." He reached across to her, and she shrank back as far as she could against the back of the sofa. Her body shook. She closed her eyes as his strong hands came towards her neck and –

A great weight was lifted from her body, and a breath rattled from between her lips. Cracking her eyes open, she looked down. In his hands, was the leather collar and leash.

"How do you feel now, Miss Granger?" he said softly.

She couldn't speak, although her eyes remained on the collar. What did this mean? What was happening to her now? Her thoughts roamed far and wide, before she finally said, "May I have a cup of tea please?"

Dolohov smiled – a smile that she was not ever used to seeing. "Certainly, Miss Granger."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven – "What now?"**

Antonin watched as the young witch took a sip of her tea. He had made it to her exact standards – one sugar, a splash of milk, and the milk had to go in last. The mug was bright orange with white spots, something that she had smirked at. He knew she wanted to make some kind of comment about it being so colourful, considering he had been a Death Eater, but she had kept her tongue in her head. He opened his mouth several times to make the joke himself, but it sounded so stupid in his head.

When he draped his coat over her shivering body, she had murmured her thanks, and continued to sip the hot drink. She was still holding onto the mug when her eyes started to close as she sat on the sofa. Stuffing the auction collar underneath the battered wooden coffee table, Antonin gently took her hand. It was small and fragile beneath his own, but at least she didn't flinch away from him.

They sat like that for a short time as Hermione's eyes fully closed, her head sinking lower towards her chest. A light snore escaped her lips, something that surprised the older man. Carefully, as if she were a child, he lifted her from the sofa. He jerked his head towards his bedroom door, Thorfinn rushing to open it for him.

Antonin settled the young witch in the centre of the double bed. He made sure the pillow supported her neck, her hair spreading out around her like a fan. The quilt he tucked around her, making sure that she was warm. He had seen her clearly when she had been thrust into the spotlight – she was much thin, unkempt. There had been a cage when he had collected her, and he had no doubt that she had been kept as a prisoner. He took his wand from his drawer, sliding it up his sleeve.

In time, she would be back to herself. He drew the thin curtains, letting the darkness carry Hermione into the land of sleep.

Backing out of the room as quietly as possible, he pulled the door shut. Leaning against the door, he let out a breath that he hadn't realised that he was holding. She was here.

Thorfinn was fiddling with the television set, until a Muggle comedy programme flicked on. A woman in tracksuit bottoms was smoking a cigarette, whilst her curly haired friend flicking through a magazine. Another girl, a girl with an incredibly squeaky voice like a House Elf clutched a plastic handbag to her chest. Thorfinn turned down the volume, letting the people talk to themselves.

The wizard sighed and crossed his arms. "What now?"

"What do you mean, what now?"

"There isn't much more I can add to the question mate. What are you going to do now? You got the girl, you can satisfy that inquisitive nature, and if you're not careful, you're going to end up back in Azkaban."

Antonin pushed himself away from the door, content that Hermione was still sleeping. Her soft snores were testament to that.

"If you're referring to the Galleons, I arranged it with Borgin when I signed the paperwork."

"For the Master's sake, Antonin, if I had known that you had so much money stashed somewhere, I'd try and move someplace better than here!" Thorfinn tried to sound jovial, but it fell flat. Instead, he hit the thin wall behind him. "How did you get it?"

" _Babushka_ ," Antonin answered, running a hand over his stubble. Yes, he definitely need to shave now. "She would put so much money in during birthdays and holidays. She called it a rainy day fund. There is a lot there."

"And how the hell are you getting that to Borgin?"

"It's all arranged. The goblins from the Moscow branch of Gringotts will make the transfer directly to Borgin. The papers I signed give him access to send the relevant forms and complete it in my name. The goblins in Moscow will keep the paperwork under the table. My parents are still respected in the country, at least."

Thorfinn sighed, kicking at the horrid beige carpet. "I just hope they keep their word. You know what goblins are like. Look at that bloody Grimsnuck-"

"Griphook," Antonin corrected.

"Whatever! You saw how that ended up – that Mudblood in there ended up in the Lestrange family vault, and then those bloody goblins turned the tables on us. You've survived for so long, that I'd hate for everything to go down downhill for you."

" _Spasibo, moy drug_." Antonin smiled, turning the conversation away. "Did you recognise the Portkey wizard at all? I know sometimes they let you clean in the Ministry."

Thorfinn shook his head. "That pig headed Weasley is head of the division, I know that. Name begins with a P, something pompous. It must be someone in the Portkey Offices themselves though, no one else would be able to organise something on this scale. Wonder if the Prophet's managed to get hold of this story yet."

"Curious," Antonin said, settling himself on the sofa. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Hermione's discarded mug. He bent down and took it, staring into its empty depths. A few grains of sugar remained stuck to the bottom.

"Everything is curious to you, Ant. You should have been put in Ravenclaw."

Antonin couldn't argue with that comment. It was why he had been so valuable to his Master, always able to turn his mind to any task at hand. He had always been a keen researcher. In his early years at school, when choosing his new subjects for the third year, he had been considering working for curse breakers. He had enjoyed Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and so took those subjects, revelling in the long quiet hours he could spend reading textbooks. And then he had been introduced to the Dark Arts.

His education seemed pitiful in comparison.

Thorfinn held a hand to his mouth, trying to stop his yawn. "Ant, mate, it's late. You should think about getting some sleep yourself."

"Soon," he said softly. There was no way he could sleep deeply knowing that Hermione Granger was in the next room.

* * *

 _Babushka -_ grandmother

 _Spasibo, moy drug -_ thank you, my friend


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry that it has taken so long to update. Things have been hectic with my life (personal stuff I won't go into here), and I just started back at uni last week too! I'm going to try and post as frequently as possible. Thank you to everyone who continues to favourite, alert and review this story – it's lovely to see so many of you interested and has helped encourage my writing!

* * *

 **Chapter Eight – Dream a Little Dream**

When Hermione woke, she was puzzled more than anything. She was cocooned in a thick quilt that smelt heavily of a male. It made her head swim. Her dazed and confused head was supported by a squashy pillow, and light filtered through thin curtains, splashing across a carpeted floor. She could hear the noise of traffic and machinery from outside, the shout of children, foreign languages… It was like being home in her own flat, but of course, she wasn't. She had no recollection of where she was, or how she had got here, although one thing for sure was that it was better than an animal cage.

She tried to sit upright, but pain flared through the old scar. Clutching her hand to it, she settled back down amongst the warmth she had created in the bed, letting her thoughts swirl around her. Her palm was pressed against the raised mark that not even Madam Pomfrey had been able to fully get rid of. She had considered approaching a Muggle hospital before going back to Hogwarts for her sixth year, but it would only raise questions – how she had got it, why did it appear the way it did, etc.

She stamped down on that thought, and had confided her fears and concerns over its appearance to Ginny Weasley and much later, to Luna Lovegood. Both girls had said that it was a reminder of how strong she could be, that she had faced death once and nothing could compare to that. Ginny had said that it could hold the key to something one day, like Harry's scar, but Hermione doubted that very much. Luna, however, remarked how it would build character, although right now, with pain shooting through it, she felt as helpless as when that troll had cornered her in the girls bathroom in her first year.

As her fingers traced the mark through the thin material she had been forced to wear at the old theatre, she cast her mind back to the strange dream she had been having. She didn't put much stock into analysing dreams, unlike Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown, Merlin rest her soul.

It had been so odd…

* * *

 _Hermione descended down the stairs into the Entrance Hall at Hogwarts. To her right, was the Great Hall – music and laughter floated through, trying to entice her further in. Her hair was bound tightly upon her head, with light tendrils escaping and framing her face. There was a distinct smell in the air – make-up, perfumes and hair potions. She was wearing fancy dress robes of periwinkle blue, with little lace edgings that were a deeper blue. As she walked, the lace edgings caught the light of the candles, making it appear as if she was walking through water, although the illusion was helped with the dainty high heels she wore._

 _She had been here before. This was Hogwarts in her fourth year – this was the Yule Ball where she had danced the night away with Viktor. She had not let her evening be spoilt by Ron and his jealous attitude._

 _As Hermione's feet met the floor, the doors to the Great Hall swung shut ominously, making the candles flicker unpleasantly. She found herself searching for Viktor. He was nowhere to be seen, and to her shock, she could not open the doors that led out to the grounds. Swearing under her breath, she had searched every inch of the Entrance Hall, but still no Viktor. It was getting frustrating, and she was about to head back up the stairs to the dormitories, take down her elegant hairstyle, bury the pretty robes and shoes in the bottom of her trunk, crawl into bed and cry her eyes out, when the Great Hall doors creaked open._

 _Soft music played, like nothing she had heard before, and almost trancelike, she headed towards it, all the while searching for her wayward date._

 _There was a lone figure standing in a bright spotlight in the middle of the Great Hall. Other than this person, the room was empty. Tables and chairs looked neat and tidy, although somewhat abandoned. Instruments played by themselves on a dimly lit stage._

 _Hermione continued to approach the figure. He was tall, taller than Viktor, with a different build. More muscular, stronger. He wore black dress robes,_ _lined with purple – a purple that seemed to shift and change with each step she took._ _In his hand, he carried a red rose. There was something magical about the rose – it was so unlike anything she had ever seen. The figure's face was in shadow, but finally, she was before him._

 _He looked up, and Hermione felt her heart stop, and perhaps what was more startling, was a fire growing deep inside of her. The figure took her hand, kissing her knuckles. Finally, his eyes met hers._

 _"Hermione," Antonin Dolohov said softly._

* * *

It was a startling dream, and Hermione shook her head to be rid of it.

"Bloody ridiculous," she murmured, as she pulled the quilt from her. "Like that would ever happen."

She took in the bedroom with more detail.

There was a set of plastic drawers, filled with clothes. The top set showed balls of threadbare socks and embarrassingly, underpants. The second was Muggle shirts, and the third, neatly folded trousers. In the bottom drawer was a set of black robes that made Hermione shiver. There was no way of hiding that this was the uniform of a Death Eater. It was all there – from the robes, to a set of heavy black boots, and most scary of all, the mask. She slammed the drawer shut, wishing she could stamp out her curiosity.

Along the skirting board was a selection of well-thumbed novels – Muggle novels, she didn't fail to notice. She recognised a few popular titles, as well as a few classics. Hermione crouched down, and selected a book at random, flicking though the dog eared pages. She found herself caught up in the tale – a thrilling adventure of one girls struggle with the government, and training to survive a deadly arena. It was like something straight out of her life – it was almost like Harry trying to survive the Triwizard Tournament in her fourth year!

Hermione settled herself cross legged on the floor, leaning back against the bedframe, as she turned the pages. She was so engrossed in the tale that she did not hear the door creak open.

"Miss Granger? Are you awake?"

Hermione dropped the book, accidentally tearing a page in panic. She sprang to her feet, backing up as far as she could against the window.

Antonin Dolohov was stood in the doorframe, a laden dinner tray in his hand.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine – Pure Morning**

Antonin saw the fear in her eyes as she clung to the bedside cabinet. She was almost on top of it, her bare legs shaking. When he had seen her reading one of his battered charity shop books, she had seemed at ease, almost comfortable. Her face had been lightly flushed, and now she was pale as snow.

"What do you want?" she whispered.

He couldn't help but smirk. She was the one standing in his bedroom, albeit fearful for her life, but she was making demands of him. So like a bloody Gryffindor. Her chin was raised in a challenging way, like a lion. Or more aptly, a lioness. Yes, a queen of all the lands she surveyed, a predator in her own right, the top of her pride…

"Tell me." Her voice broke through his thoughts.

"I thought you would care for some breakfast." He stepped into the room, laying the tray on the bed. He had toasted bread, scrambled eggs and even fried a few rashers of bacon, and a couple of sausages. On the tray was the orange spotty mug that she had used the evening before – tea how she had preferred it. Even a plastic tumbler of orange juice. "You need to keep your strength up."

"What for?" She had taken one step closer to the bed, but her eyebrow had raised. "What do you have planned for me?"

The truth was, Antonin did not even know. He wanted to talk to her, find out why she ran through his thoughts, why the mere thought of her turned his emotions upside down. There had to be something – no other girl had even made him like this. No one at Hogwarts, and certainly not any of the Dark Lord's followers. No one at home in Russia either.

Taking a deep breath, Antonin said quietly, "I want to talk with you."

"Why?" Her one word retort was sharp, almost like a knife.

Antonin didn't answer. Instead, he focused on the tea mug where steam was slowly rising.

"You should probably start on this, before it gets cold."

"Why did you buy me? What sick act are you planning? You can never bring Voldemort back, if that's what you're thinking – Harry made sure of that!"

"Don't say his name," Antonin said through his teeth.

"What? Harry? Or Voldemort?"

Antonin shivered at the name of his fallen master. He had followed him for so long, had seen everything great and terrible happen, but even to this day, he had never liked the name. The Dark Lord was a moniker that had suited him so much better – better than the name he had come to Hogwarts with.

He heard her step forward.

"Voldemort," she hissed, the name sounding snakelike through her lips.

Antonin leapt to his feet. His fingers itched to grab his wand, to turn it on her, but he resisted. That would not do to curse her – he would never get anything accomplished that way.

"You shiver like some kind of dog. You're meant to be a Death Eater, aren't you? Fearsome, terrible, and when that name is mentioned, it's like you turn tail. How cowardly." She had stepped closer. The fear in her eyes was still there, but there was something else as well. It was a fire, a burning intensity, like nothing he had ever seen. This was unlike any spell or curse. This was something else entirely.

Her stomach grumbling broke whatever it was between them.

"Eat your breakfast, Granger. Then we talk."

Antonin swept from the bedroom, slamming the door so hard behind him that the handle rattled.

* * *

He tried to concentrate on the page in front of him, but his eyes blurred. He hadn't slept well last night, and when he had finally dropped off, Thorfinn had bustled through on his way to work, slamming cupboard doors as he went. Finally giving up, Antonin dropped the paperback book onto the floor, where it thudded softly. The television that he had been watching was on a low volume – some competitive cooking programme that he had seen before.

He was about to make himself a coffee when the bedroom door creaked open. Hermione stood there, the tray in her arms, an expression of calm on her face. The plate that he had filled was empty – that was a good sign at least. She took a step into the room, and their eyes locked.

Her eyes instantly dropped to the tray, and she murmured, "Thank you for the food."

"It's not a problem." He crossed the room, taking the tray from her hands. "There's a bathroom through there, if you'd like to…" His voice trailed off and he realised how stupid that sounded. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I can get you a towel if you'd like to shower?"

Her gaze flicked to the door he had indicated, and she nodded. "Please."

Without waiting for the towel, Hermione swept into the bathroom, shutting it firmly behind her. As he put the plates in the sink and wiped the tray down, he heard the shower unit click, and the boiler starting making a racket.

His thoughts wandered as he heard Hermione in the bathroom. They had no feminine toiletries – she wouldn't smell floral and sweet when she came out of there. She would have the smell of his gels, his shampoos – she would smell like him… He had to hold onto the worktop surfaces to stop himself from doing something stupid. His thoughts had once been collective, calm, but every time she entered the frame, he turned into a hormonal mess.

Biting hard on his lip, reality flooded him once again. He busied himself tidying, and took several towels from the pop-up clothes horse. He also took a clean pair of black boxers and a plaid button-up shirt too. Those would fit her, he hoped, but sadly, there were no trousers or shoes. He made a mental note to find out her size for the next time he went to the charity shop.

Antonin knocked loudly, but there was no answer from within, except the still running water. Carefully, he opened the door a crack, and pushed his bundle through the gap to rest on top of the radiator, but a flash of skin caught his eye. Any raging hormonal thoughts he had went straight out of his mind as he gasped, and slammed the door shut. He fled to his bedroom, hiding away like a child.

He had seen the atrocities he had committed. He had seen the bodies, disfigured, cursed, maimed and dead, but this… He had never seen a mark like that, and yet he knew what had caused it. He knew who had done it. He felt sick, as he curled himself into a ball, body shaking.

Time passed. He did not know how long he had stayed like that, but it was only when a voice spoke that he was jolted from the replaying memory of that night in the Ministry.

"Mr Dolohov?" The door creaked further open. "Antonin?"

She had said his name for the first time. It sounded so strange on her tongue. Strange, but in a good way…

"Antonin?"

He heard her step closer towards him. Was that pity in her voice, as she saw a Death Eater cry? He opened his mouth to answer, but only a breath came out. What startled him most was when he felt the bed dip, and slowly, he felt her hand touch him. He very nearly jumped out of his skin, but her hand moved again. It glided up his body, resting at his shoulder. He heard her inhale shakily through her nose as her hand travelled to the shoulder that rested against the bed, and the rest of her arm pressed against him. She appeared to be getting closer towards him – the smell of his shower gel invaded his senses, and the tips of her hair tickled a patch of bare skin.

Hermione Granger held him gently as a small tear trickled slowly down his face.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten – Tea Time**

Hermione didn't know what had come over her as she held the Death Eater. There was something pitiful about the whole situation, although she had no idea as to why he would be crying. He had everything he wanted now, didn't he? He was the villain of the piece. She could hear his sobs by now, and that shook all of her senses. The only Death Eater she had known to cry had been Peter Petigrew, and that was when he had been fighting for his life in the Shrieking Shack all those years ago.

The Shrieking Shack… It seemed such a long time ago when she had holed up in that decrepit building that awful evening, her Time Turner warm against her chilled skin. She had finally been able to tell her friends the truth about the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, and watched how he was connected to the whole Sirius Black scenario. A convicted killer, turned godfather, turned good man and friend.

As she held the Death Eater in her arms, her heart pained. Sirius had been killed – struck down in the Ministry, whilst she was unconscious. She could have helped in the battle, but no. Other plans had been laid out for her. A shiver ran up her spine as realisation sunk in. She was holding the man who had maimed her – left a still hideous mark on her skin.

Slowly, she started to withdraw her arms from him, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist. His fingers enclosed over them, holding her in place. It wasn't a tight hold, she could wriggle out of this, but something stopped her. His fingers were marked, scarred, as if he had been a Muggle labourer, instead of a Dark wizard.

"Don't go," she heard him say softly.

Hermione floundered for an excuse. She doubted very much whether, _"You frighten me, and I want to go home,"_ would cut it. And realistically, when had that ever worked for anyone?

"I think you need some tea," she eventually settled on, realising how much she sounded like Molly Weasley in that instance.

His fingers loosened their hold on her, and she backed up off the bed. She hadn't even got to the door, when he had done likewise. His shirt was rumpled, marred with wet spots where the tears had fallen. He tried to straighten it, along with his hair – it was tufted up in places like ducks feathers.

"We could both do with a drink, I think," he said, and pushed past her towards the kitchen.

Having no other choice, seeing that her poorly formulated escape plan had already failed, Hermione followed him into the kitchenette area, where the Death Eater was already moving around cups and filling the kettle with his back to her.

Hermione's eyes slid to the door, but thought better of it. She still felt weak, and he was bigger than her. He would be faster than her - and he probably had a wand. She had nothing. There would be a better chance for escape soon - she just knew it.

"Mr Dolohov?" she said. When his response was to put teabags into cups without a word, she tried again. "Antonin?"

He turned so quickly that she thought he would give himself whiplash. "Yes, Hermione?"

She tried not to bristle at the way he said her name. She could still recall her dream – breakfast and a shower had done little to distract her from that. She took a deep breath, and decided to approach the matter head on.

"Why were you so upset?"

Antonin dropped the teaspoon on the floor with a clatter, and he hurried to pick it up. He didn't reply straight away. Instead, he tossed the spoon into the sink, found another and finished making the warm drinks, taking a long time to squeeze the bags. She was grateful that he did not use tea leaves – it was bad enough that she was trying to seek some kind of answer to her dreams, but if he offered to read her tea leaves, she might just explode.

She jerked out of her thoughts when he pushed the spotted mug into her hands. A mug that had seemingly become hers for the duration of her stay. "Thanks."

"Do you want a biscuit to go with it? Think Thorfinn's left a packet of bourbons in here." He started searching through cupboards, cupboards she noticed that were quite well stocked. He produced a pack, took two out and pressed them into her free hand. She tried not to pull away from his touch. Instead, she tried a different style of questioning.

"You and Thorfinn are pretty good friends then?"

"Knew each other from school. We were sorted the same year – both Slytherin, in case you were wondering." He dipped a bourbon biscuit into his mug of tea as he leaned against the worktop surfaces. "To be honest though, he was one of the only people who spoke to me in the early days – many people thought I shouldn't have been educated at Hogwarts."

"Why's that? It's not like you're a werewolf or anything, are you?" Hermione bit into his biscuit, crumbs scattering down the loose shirt, turned dress. She knew instinctively that this was one of his – along with the boxers that she was using as underwear. At least he hadn't stared at her like she was a piece of meat.

"Have you not heard my accent?" He smirked.

"Russian," she said confidently.

"Yes, Russian. Many thought a foreigner should have gone to somewhere else – Beauxbatons was an option, but people said I wasn't handsome enough." His mouth twitched in a bigger grin, and for a moment, Hermione could see the man from her dream. "A lot of people thought I should have gone to Durmstrang."

"Why did you come to Hogwarts, then?" Hermione could have hit herself – that sounded so rude.

Antonin laughed, a short bark, almost doglike, before biting once more into a biscuit. "Even as far as Russia, Albus Dumbledore was still revered to be a great wizard. Hence, why I begged my parents to write and enquire when I was a child."

"He was a great wizard – until your cronies struck him down." Hermione busied himself with drinking from the mug, keeping her eyes downcast.

"I'll have you know that I wasn't part of the Tower attack. I was busy downstairs, fighting the Order, keeping them away from the task at hand. I had no part in Dumbledore's death."

"No, instead you were busy attacking the school that you had once longed to attend! Wow, that's being loyal and true."

"Aren't they the traits of a Hufflepuff?"

He wasn't letting her jibes hurt him – the man clearly had spent enough time on these kinds of thoughts before. Instead of retorting, Hermione simply sipped her tea, letting her eyes find him every so often. He was focused on her the whole time, but surprisingly, Hermione did not want to cower from his gaze. The man was clearly a match against her own stubbornness, and even though, they had barely spoken before, she found him easy to talk to, for a Death Eater...

Hermione enjoyed a challenge as much as the next person.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven – Bearer of Bad News**

Antonin was surprised at the sudden change that had come over Hermione. She seemed at the very least a little bit more comfortable around him, but he wasn't fooled for a second. If she thought that this was the way to freedom, to an escape, then the little Gryffindor had another thing coming.

She was surprisingly good fun. They didn't talk about the auction. Instead, Antonin steered the conversation to topics that she would open up with. Books seemed the best way forward. They sat at opposite ends of the sofa, neither bodies touching, although if Antonin really wanted to, he could reach out and hold that small hand. He could just see her reaction now – she would swipe out at him, maybe scratch his face, thrash in his arms, before making a desperate bid for the door. And then she would be gone.

"Was Madam Pince still the librarian when you started?" Antonin asked, as he offered her another biscuit. He had piled the packet onto a plate, making things easier for the both of them. Cautiously, she took one, before answering.

"Yes. She always seemed like some kind of overbearing vulture."

"More like a bat, I thought. Swooping out of the stacks when you were least expecting her-"

"Ruining romantic liaisons?" Hermione smirked. The lift of her cheeks gave her a sort of hamster-ish appearance, but the overall effect was still rather cute.

"She only ruined one, I'll have you know. And I wasn't pursuing the girl, she was pursuing me!"

"So you hadn't got to the stage of buying women yet then?"

Antonin tried not to let the comment get to him. Instead, he steered it back to the unfortunate library experience.

"It was in my fifth year, just before my exams. I was looking for a text that I thought might help in Ancient Runes, and then this girl – tiny, little thing, third year, must have been – comes sidling up, pressing herself against my back, whispering that she would do anything if I wanted her to. I spun to push her off, and Bat Pince found us. Shooed us out, sending us to our heads of houses. Both Slughorn and Flitwick believed my version of events, especially when the girl had to take a drop of Veritaserum. She was given detention for a whole week. Needless to say, she didn't speak to me after that, although plenty of other girls started batting their lashes and pouting their lips at me."

"You must have been quite the handsome devil for that to have happened." Hermione seemed to realise what she had said, because she started stuttering and broke her biscuit in two, before lapsing into silence.

Antonin's head spun for a moment. Did Hermione actually think he was handsome?

"What about you? Did she ever catch good girl Granger in the low lights of the library?"

Hermione's cheeks flushed, and she snapped a piece of the biscut again, before stuffing it all in her mouth, crumbs splattering her bare legs. Something had happened then… He wondered who with and felt a bristle of jealously. He opened his mouth to speak, but the door smashed open, nearly breaking off its hinges.

Thorfinn stood in the centre of the chaos, clutching his ribcage. His breath wheezed out of him, and his blonde hair stuck up at odd angles. He was still wearing his Maintenance uniform, a deep navy jumpsuit and a pair of battered black shoes. His magical cuff sparkled in the light of the living room.

"Thorfinn, what the-"

"The Ministry knows."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I don't know how, but the Ministry is searching for her." Thorfinn pointed at Hermione, who was doing a very good impression of a rabbit caught in headlights. "Someone told. The Prophet's going mental, she's already becoming a front page story. You've got to get out of here!"

"Thorfinn, what do you-"

"Look Ant, you need to take her, and get the hell away him London. At least for a little while. Go somewhere else, anywhere. You'll never know the truth if you're separated and stuffed back into Azkaban."

There was an awkward silence, both men thinking of the terror they had experienced, before Hermione whispered, "What truth?"

Antonin didn't answer. Instead, he grasped her hand, hauled her from the sofa, and ushered her towards his bedroom. He nodded to Thorfinn, as he closed the door behind him. He pulled a large battered rucksack from under the bed, and started stuffing it full of clothes.

"What are you doing? I'm not going with you, if that's what you're thinking!"

"Yes, you are. Now, shut up and help pack."

"Why should I? You bought me as if I was something to keep." She launched a small paperback book at his head, but he ducked at the right moment so it only hit the pillows on the bed. "You've taken me from my family, my home, my friends – everything I could still have if you let me go!"

"Not going to happen."

"Why? Are you hoping that I'll develop Stockholm Syndrome and fall in love with you, or something? You're deluded – I will never love you! You killed my friends!"

"Just as they killed mine!" Antonin roared, zipping the rucksack so fast that the plastic casing broke off in his hand. "There are catastrophes of every war, _printsessa,_ don't you ever forget that!"

"How dare you-"

Antonin whipped his wand from his back pocket, holding it towards her face. The sudden movement startled her so much that she jerked backwards and flinched. He advanced towards her, so she was against the door.

"We're leaving. Now." He summoned the bag, letting magic thrum through his veins. Oh, how he had missed it. It was like a drug – addictive as ever. How could he have been so blind and foolish all these years?

Grasping Hermione's arm so tightly that he would leave bruises, he pulled her close so that she was flat against his chest. He didn't have time to dwell on the sensation, not now at least. Focusing with all his might, he spun on the spot, and with a loud crack, and a scream from Hermione, they Disapparated.

* * *

 _printsessa -_ princess


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note:** Hey everyone, welcome back to this story. I do realise I've been away for a year, but there has been a lot happening with university, my health, my family... In short, there's been a lot of personal stuff, as well as just releasing a new book on Amazon... I have wanted to continue this story, but finding the time has been like finding a needle in a haystack. Thank you to everyone who continues to favourite, alert and review this story. I'm back and fingers crossed, I'm staying!

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve – Babushka**

As soon as Hermione's bare feet made contact with the cold wooden flooring, she wrenched her arm from Antonin's powerful grip. She surged forwards, trying to run, although she had no idea where she was, or even where she was going. Dizziness made her head spin wildly, and she collapsed onto the floor. Her knees stung, although it was the least of her worries right now.

"Here," she heard him say, but she smacked away the hand he offered. Trying to muster what energy she had left in her body, she began to crawl forwards. Her vision wasn't the best at the moment, but she thought she could just make out a doorway. She tried moving towards it, although the feeling of nausea was still within her. She wobbled sideways, unsteady, her hand groping wildly for something – anything. Luck was with her as she grasped a bitterly cold iron handle. Pulling herself into standing position, she threw a glance over her shoulder.

Antonin stood, arms relaxed by his side in the centre of the room. He didn't make a move to stop her, although he still had his wand raised slightly. All he did was blink.

"Goodbye Mr Dolohov," she said, well aware that her voice did not sound as strong as she hoped it would. She pressed down on the handle. A breeze swept through, and Hermione ran.

The door was wide open behind her as she fought against the cold air. Her bare feet stung as she crushed frozen strands of grass. She wanted to get away – to get to the woods that were just beyond an icy wooden fence, but her body wouldn't let her, and she crumbled to the ground. A sob was wrenched from her throat and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Her body shook against the unfamiliar climate.

"You will need this."

A thick deep purple cape was lowered onto her shoulders. The musty fur on the collar tickled her nose, but she found herself drawing the material closer to her. She didn't say anything as she felt him put one arm around her shoulders, and one at the back of her knees. She let herself be lifted, savouring the warmth of his body against hers. Her eyes closed, as his boots crunched over the ground, and she didn't open them again until she had been placed on a sunken old sofa.

"Incendio," she heard him mutter, and within seconds, the small room was filled with warmth. She watched as he placed logs onto the now burning fire, and began to light chunky candles on the mantelpiece with his wand.

The room had not been used in a while, that much was clear. There was a layer of dust on everything, and it needed airing. Above the mantelpiece was a mirror, half concealed with a black sheet. There was a thin bookshelf with leather bound volumes on each shelf, sandwiched between two door frames. There was a small end table near Hermione's end of the sofa. It held a very old, faded newspaper, and a framed moving picture.

Antonin moved into another room, and she took the opportunity to reach for the photograph.

Using the cloak as a duster, Hermione cleaned it as best as she could. Underneath the muck, the frame was silver, but it was the picture that interested her the most. An older woman was sitting on a leather wingback armchair. She was very elegant, with dark hair coiffed on top of her head, a Gothic fascinator pinning some loose curls back from her face. Her cheekbones were sharp, but she did not have a severe face. In fact, the woman was smiling and her eyes held laughter. Dressed smartly in dress robes, she swatted playfully at the young boy chasing around her chair.

His brown hair was tied back with a neat ribbon, although several strands escaped and fell into piercing eyes. Eyes that had not seen the horrors of the world. He was wearing a brand new set of school robes and he stuck his tongue out at the woman as he continued to run and avoid her feeble attempts to stop him.

"Antonin," she whispered, stroking the glass of the frame.

"That was taken after my first visit to Diagon Alley."

Hermione nearly dropped the frame. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"You would have found it sooner or later. _Babushka_ was very proud, as you can tell." Antonin placed a teacup on the end table, a tiny silver spoon on the side of the saucer.

"That means grandmother, doesn't it?"

" _Da._ This was her second home. When the Dark Lord threatened the world, she decided to move somewhere a little more remote than Moscow." Antonin sipped his tea – and it looked strange. A wild Death Eater, using a china teacup. "My parents and I are the only ones who are aware of this place."

"And now me?"

"And now you."

"Why did you bring me here, anyway?" Hermione stared down at the frame, hoping that if she stared hard enough her fingers would stop shaking. "Why didn't you leave me behind? What did Thorfinn mean about-" she paused, "about everything?"

"It's getting late," Antonin said. "I will try and find something substantial for us to eat in the morning, but for tonight I'm afraid, you may have to go hungry."

"I've been used to it." Hermione wasn't likely to forget about those long hard months camping with Harry and Ron. How difficult it had been to find food, even when they had been near villages or towns. Turning it into something edible had been another matter altogether.

She thought of her friends now – the famous Auror Harry Potter with his pretty, sporty wife and trying for a baby, and equally famous Auror Ron Weasley, who longed for a family that Hermione could not (and did not) want to give him. In his last letter, Ron mentioned that he was planning on taking an old school friend on a date sometime soon. He also said that George wanted him to work the joke shop too, although Ron knew it was to fill the void after losing Fred all those years ago.

What would they think of her situation now?

"Hermione?" Antonin's voice was calm. When she felt his hand on her knee, she leapt to her feet. His face seemed to change as he said, "I'm sorry for startling you."

"I… I… I think I'd like to get some sleep now, please," she said weakly.

* * *

 _babushka -_ grandmother

 _da_ \- yes


End file.
